"Si, senor."
Dick strolled off the bridge to inquire how the half-drowned man was getting on, and also, to learn, if possible, the identity of the men who had stolen his yacht.
The rescued one was sitting up on deck, in a steamer chair, having recovered consciousness, due to the rough and ready treatment of the sailors. Dick saw an elderly man, with a little bunch of white whiskers on his chin. He rubbed his eyes and looked again.
Grit, at his master's heels, growled ominously. The hair on his back stood up, as it only did when he saw some one whom he hated, and who disliked him.
"Quiet, Grit!" said Dick, in a low voice.
At the sound of the lad's words the man, who was covered with a blanket, arose unsteadily to his feet. Dick could scarcely believe his eyes.
"Ah—er—is it you, Nephew Richard?" asked the rescued one, slowly.
"Uncle—Ezra—Larabee!" gasped the young millionaire. "Is it possibly you?"
"What's left of me—yes—Nephew Richard. Oh, I've had a fearful time—I almost drowned, and those terrible men took all my money. Oh, it was awful! Never—never again will I undertake such a task, no matter who I try to save!"